


The Water

by Storyshark2005



Series: (No) Mercy for the Midlife Crisis Universe [3]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Baseball Metaphors, Character Study, Flashbacks, It got angsty, Johnny pov, M/M, sports ball metaphors, switch hitter, this was suppossed to be light and funny, who's on top?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storyshark2005/pseuds/Storyshark2005
Summary: Pitchers and Catchers. Quarterbacks and Receivers.Tops and bottoms.Johnny contemplates things "the other way 'round".
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: (No) Mercy for the Midlife Crisis Universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609726
Comments: 30
Kudos: 245





	The Water

**Author's Note:**

> (Formerly formerly 'Switch Hitter', formerly 'Quid Pro Quo'. Because why not.) 
> 
> This just all goes to show I can't do rom-coms. This got much angstier and more introspective than I anticipated.  
> But I'm rather proud of it, I think it's got a good feels-to-wordcount ratio. 
> 
> And a laugh, here and there.
> 
> (Warning: Offensive language)

  
  
  


##  **The Water**

> My face was numb, my lungs were sore
> 
> But still I swam until my feet could touch the shore
> 
> Now I've been sleeping on your porch
> 
> I'm still too scared to bust the lock on your door
> 
> So I crawled out of the back door
> 
> Took off all these tight clothes
> 
> Jumped into the water
> 
> So I crawled out of the back door
> 
> Took off all these tight clothes
> 
> Jumped into the water
> 
> I jumped into the water
> 
> The water
> 
> The water
> 
> \- Ra Ra Riot, “Water” 

  
  
  
  


> “What offended me most about the whole to-do was not the charge of being homosexual. It was the general insinuation that, if I were gay, I wouldn't want everyone knowing about it. [...]
> 
> If I was gay, I'd be gay all the way.” 
> 
> \- Mike Piazza, _Long Shot_

  
  
  


***

  
  


One of the perks of sleeping with a guy, Johnny had found, was that getting a guy “in the mood” wasn’t all that complicated. 

Well okay so it wasn’t exactly a peer-reviewed scientific study, but Johnny knows he’s a typical guy who will jump at any and all opportunities, and the only guy he’d ever fucked had been LaRusso of course, and so far getting LaRusso in the sack was mostly just giving his a look or kissing him and shoving him down the hallway onto the bed.

He was getting laid more regularly than at any other point in his life, even in his 20s before his mother had died and turned him into a sad person. Johnny at age 25 could basically walk into a bar, lock eyes with any female in the room he liked, and excepting the annoyance of pleasantries (introducing himself, buying a drink, stupid brain-numbing small talk) reel her in like a fish. He would guess that at his peak, Johnny was batting close to 1000 at most bars in the Valley. 

Shannon had been a firecracker for a year or so, until she realized he wasn’t exactly a meal-ticket, and that avenue dried up pretty quick. 

But thinking back through the strings of girlfriends before and after Shannon, he’d never had the luxury of coming home to the same person every night, still finding them attractive, and having the option of a good lay whenever he pleased. 

Did he miss dating a girl, feeling like a normal person? Yes. Did he miss _fucking_ a girl? Not really. Not at this rate, anyway. 

But early into 2019 there are a few instances where Daniel gets home from the dealership, tired with small bruises appearing like thumbprints of purple fingerpaint under his eyes. Johnny tries not to be a total dick about it and rubs a hand down LaRusso’s back and reheats something leftover for dinner. He’s looking forward to a little good old fashioned “sexual healing” at bedtime, but the moment just doesn’t seem to come. Johnny’s propped up on one elbow nodding stupidly as LaRusso blabbers on about how stressed out he is and how weird work is now that Amanda and her sugar baby Anoush are taking over or something. LaRusso is lying there in his white t-shirt and boxer briefs and he’s jabbering on, groaning, rubbing his hands down his face. 

“It’s just so weird, because I _built_ that place, I mean Johnny, I had plans for it even before I met Amanda, I mean ever since I started working for Jerry, that was the idea, you know, start my own thing, be my own boss. But now, I call up any of the other branches and ask to get something done, and they feel like they have to ‘run it by Anoush’ like, what the fuck is that about?! _Whose_ _name_ is on the goddamn building?! I was Anoush’s boss for eighteen years and now just because I give up a little executive responsibility, they think I’m a _junior salesman_ — _”_

LaRusso stops talking and looks over at Johnny, and Johnny gathers he’s supposed to offer advice or something. 

“Uhhh...you wanna, like...fuck around a little?” 

Daniel’s face wrinkles up, and Johnny gathers he’s said the wrong thing. 

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” 

“You’re all stressed out. How ‘bout a hand job?” Johnny nods reasonably and reaches out. 

Daniel slaps his hand away and vaults up, still grumbling about _only want one thing from me_ into the bathroom, and the shower slams on. Johnny sits up in bed, thinking that maybe dating a chick and a dude weren’t so different after all. 

  
  


***

He puts up with a two-week drought before he decides something has to be done. 

You see, they have a system. A routine, so to speak. A unspoken agreement: LaRusso is the one who gets fucked, and Johnny does the fucking. 

They’d fallen right into that, immediately, it was so natural. Daniel had practically hauled Johnny on top of him, and that first early morning at Johnny’s Daniel had kissed the words into his lips _would you fuck me?_ maybe the hottest single moment Johnny can recall in his life, Daniel’s slick dark chest heaving and his eyes darting around, a little nervous. And ever since then, it’s just been the way things are. 

What else. Daniel likes a little dirty talk. Johnny’s still not one for pet names ( _shudder_ ) but he does try to to vary up the ‘LaRusso’s with a ‘Daniel’ once in awhile (well it was only polite, especially when you were balls deep in somebody, to use their given name). Also he’s thrown in a ‘baby’ here and there, which he knows Daniel loves, but it’s still something he has to practice doing without making a weird face. He starts easy enough, it really was pretty natural when his blood was on fire, rocking into Daniel on the edge of orgasm to say, _fuck yeah, baby, ohmygod_ you know, slip it in there right before he comes like it was mindless, like maybe he wasn’t responsible for the shit that came out of his mouth at a time like that. But anyway Daniel’s version of dirty talk was more like egging Johnny on, like _c’mon, Johnny, whaddareya gonna do about it, Johnny, you gonna fuck my brains out, huh?_ with his Jersey accent and the insubordinate tilt to his chin, and _jesuschrist_ it made Johnny crazy, made him want to hit him sometimes, and he thinks sometimes, reading into the glint in Daniel’s dark eyes, that maybe Daniel would let him. 

So anyway all clues point to them doing it the right way around. Johnny’s the big manly-man and Daniel’s the fuck boy. 

(Don’t tell him he said that.)

 _But..._ once in awhile, there are clues to the contrary. 

During another night of LaRusso’s tedious diatribes on how shitty it was to, you know, sell the majority shares of your business to your ex-wife after you cheated on her— Johnny picks out a couple of phrases to mull over: 

_“Those guys used to come to me for things....I was the boss.”_

_“I’m sick of being treated like I don’t still call the shots around there.”_

_“WHOSE name is on the building, Johnny?! Is it NOROUZI AUTO?! No, no it’s not, can you believe— "_ and blah blah blah.

“So you want to be the boss?” Johnny interrupts the tirade late on a Thursday night. Daniel stops pacing, his tie slung down low, his slate blue dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He’s standing there, looking at Johnny with soft eyes, having just slid his belt from his pressed khakis. He looks hot. 

Johnny watches him, trying to look hot by being shirtless in bed. 

“I dunno,” he sighs. “I _don’t_ _,_ not really. I just want to be done with this so I can teach.” He sits down on the end of the bed, looking a little dejected. “It’s just....frustrating to be there and not be in charge. I miss feeling like...like I’m steering the ship.” He shakes his head, presses his fingers into his eye sockets. “It’s fine. It’s just weird. I knew it would be weird.” 

“You could be the boss here,” the words slip from Johnny’s mouth before he even thinks them through, but the idea has been stewing for awhile. “In bed.”

Daniel looks over his shoulder at him, incredulous, eyebrows and forehead wrinkled up. 

“Whatdoyou mean, like...” Daniel waits, like it’s a joke. Johnny quirks his eyebrows up, once, covering up his nerves. 

“You know,” Johnny clears his throat. “If you wanted to try it the other way around...it might make you feel better. Might be hot.” 

Daniel’s jaw drops a little, and there is a terrible silence for a couple of long seconds, before Daniel starts laughing, and stands to pull his shirt off. 

_“What’s so funny?”_ Johnny frowns.

 _“Yeah, right,”_ he grins, laughing at the ceiling as he hangs his tie on his stupid tie rack in the closet. “I’d pay to see that. Johnny Lawrence, on the— that’s hilarious, Johnny.” 

“What, you don’t think I could do it?” 

Daniel turns, mid-laugh, his eyes bright, fingers on his shirt buttons. Johnny sits up straighter in the bed, and watches Daniel’s eyes drop down, rake over his chest and abs. He pulls himself out of it after a moment, and rolls his eyes, walking into the bathroom. 

“Well it’s not exactly Cobra Kai philosophy, is it?” Daniel calls, running his toothbrush under the faucet. “Wait for somebody else to Strike First, trust they’re gonna take care of you, let them in and hope you don’t get hurt.” 

Johnny gets out of bed and comes over to lean on the bathroom doorway, watches Daniel brush his teeth, spit into the sink. He rinses his brush, giving Johnny a funny look.

“What?” 

“I’m not Cobra Kai anymore,” Johnny shakes his head. 

Daniel’s expression melts, predictably, and he steps into Johnny space, kisses him slow and hot. 

“I know,” he breathes, fingertips of one hand hovering over Johnny’s cheek, making his skin tingle. 

They go to bed, and Daniel pulls him over on top like always, and Johnny follows and breathes hot and heavy into his neck while he jacks him off. Daniel kisses him right before he comes and Johnny takes it all in, the feel of his hips under his fingertips, the taste of his tongue, the wet heat between their stomachs. 

“You don’t have to...do anything different. I like us,” Daniel mumbles into his lips. Johnny pushes his hair back, a little sweaty, studies the shape of his cheeks and jaw, and the bruised hidden places on his collarbone and chest. 

“I know. Just...whatever you want,” he shakes his head, it’s maybe the most honest he’s been with anybody (ever) in a very long time. “Don’t be afraid to tell me what you _want.”_

“You,” Daniel says, but he’s not looking Johnny in the eye. “Just you.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Johnny concludes two things: 

> 1\. If he’s gonna get fucked, he has to be either high or drunk. All the googling he’s done seems to indicate that getting fucked in the ass was no goddamn joke. Lots of things can go wrong, too. He quickly slams the laptop shut and breathes into this hands. Anyways, relaxation seems to sort of be the _key_. 
> 
> 2\. To get Daniel to fuck him, he’s gonna have to piss him off first. 

He starts to formulate a plan. 

  
  


***

Johnny likes the control part. He really does. Like...physically. He likes calling the shots and pushing LaRusso around and telling him how it’s gonna be. Crowding him into corners, and leaving bruises on the fronts of his shoulders and teeth-marks on his chest. 

But he also likes it when LaRusso pushes back. When Daniel’s jaw gets tight and his fists clench white and his breathing picks up. There’s a raw thrill there, thinking about what would happen if he pushed too far. 

Johnny’s always been reckless, ever since he could remember. Caution was for kids with a real future, with something to preserve. It wasn’t the same for a kid with no father, and a mother who cared more about living safe and comfortable than about being happy. He knew what putting safety ahead of self meant. So for fifty years he lived for himself, and only himself with no real regard for self-preservation, longevity. No plan. He’d squandered his chance at fatherhood, and a relationship with the mother of his son. 

He didn’t have much to preserve until he got his kid back and LaRusso at his side. He’s fifty years old with something to finally live for, something to protect, and he doesn’t know what to do with that some days.

Anyway. 

He thinks all of this has _something_ to do with the sex. 

  
  


***

He catches a Dodger’s game with Jimmy a week later. Day game on a Sunday. LaRusso was taking Sam around to college campus visits or something. Robby was staying home panicking, probably. 

The Dodgers were getting pounded by the Giants, top of the third inning and Johnny’s thinking over-priced beer might be worth it, the way this game was looking. Jimmy’s sitting next to him tossing candied pecans into his mouth, crunching loudly. 

“I hate getting fucked by this guy,” Johnny shakes his head, pointing down at the pitcher’s mound, where Madison Bumgarner was doing his level best to make the Dodgers look like a bunch of Little Leaguers. 

It didn’t help that Ryu was up to bat. 

“Look at this dopey fuck,” Johnny points. “You know there isn’t a pitcher in the League who doesn’t look like a goddamn retard with a bat in his hand. What’s this guy’s batting average?” 

Ryu take a choppy swing. 0-2. 

Jimmy cranes forward, studying the jumbotron, and winces. “0.157.” 

_“Jesus._ That’s embarrassing.” 

Jimmy shrugs. “Well. Like you said. It all kind of comes out even if every pitcher in the League sucks at hitting.”

“Yeah,” Johnny sighs, thinking of his last time he'd gotten to bring Daniel to a game, to drink beer and kick their feet together and argue over the designated hitter rule. It had been _months_ ago.

Ryu strikes out swinging, and slumps back to the dugout looking relieved. The inning is over, and Johnny watches Buster Posey meet Bumgarner at the mound, give him a slap on the ass and Bumgarner pulls his catcher into an affectionate noogie. 

“Now see, _that’s_ the real anchor of a team, you know.” Jimmy gestures to Posey horsing around with Bumgarner, walking back to their own dugout. “The pitcher gets all the credit, but it’s the _catcher_ who’s laying down the signs and calling the game. You can’t have a decent battery without a great catcher.” 

“Yeah but the pitcher takes the win or the loss.” Johnny stretches his legs out, watching the palm trees sway from over the left-field wall. “The pressure is all on him.” 

“Yeah but he can’t win without throwing the right stuff. When all that pressure gets to his head, he’s gotta rely on the catcher to think for him.” Jimmy shakes his head, and they watch Ryu take the mound, throw a couple practice pitches at Russell Martin. “It’s the catcher, man. He’s like the quarterback, without all the glory.” 

Johnny thinks about this all the way to the vendors, and buys a couple tall boys of Miller and two slices of pizza. _The catcher is like the quarterback_ , he mutters to himself, carrying the cold cans and cardboard plate of greasy pizza. 

He’s walking back down the stadium stairs and has to stop when he hears the crack of a bat and about 80% of the crowd groan and sigh. Madison Bumgarner, pitcher for the San Francisco Giants, with a batting average just squeaking past Ryu’s abysmal number, hits a 2-run homer into the left-field stands. 

“See, whose fault is that?!” Johnny says to Jimmy when he gets back to his seat, still watching Bumgarners’s big dumb face as he chugs around the bases. Ryu pulls his cap low over his nose, looking like he wants to die. 

Jimmy laughs, reaching jovially for the beer and pizza. “Sometimes you get lucky I guess.” 

“Luck is for pussies. Ryu threw him a meatball.” Johnny cracks the beer open, shaking his head.

Jimmy bites into his pizza. “Hey, speaking of getting lucky. How’s it going with LaRusso?” 

“It’s fine,” Johnny nods. 

“Fine?” Jimmy’s eyebrows go up. 

“Good. It’s good.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“I don’t know Jimmy, I’m getting laid, man. It’s good. Jesus I mean how much do you really wanna know?” 

“Alright, alright, fine,” Jimmy puts his hands up. “I was just asking.” 

“Well, it’s. It’s good.” 

“Good.” 

Jimmy seems to leave it alone for a minute, chewing on his pizza and wiping grease off his fingers with a stack of napkins on his lap. But Johnny can tell he’s just sitting there thinking how to word his next objection to Johnny probably fucking up the only good things in his life. 

Ryu manages to strike Joe Panik out, hopeful applause fills the stadium. 

“Johnny, you know, to be completely honest, Bobby and I always worry about you. You have this tendency to...to push people away when it’s getting serious. And it seems like this is the first...the first one with potential in a long time. I mean with Shannon we had kind of hoped—”

“Don’t. Man, not with Shannon. You’re gonna give me nightmares.” Johnny shudders, biting into his own slice of pepperoni.

“Fine. But it’s a big jump for you. Going from your usual thing to a serious relationship. I mean, Daniel divorced his wife for this—” 

“You don’t think I know that?” Johnny sighs, setting the pizza down and opting for his beer. 

“Yeah. But you need to remember it. Don’t forget it when times start to get rough. That’s what it’s all about, Johnny. Commitment is seeing through the bad stuff—” 

_“Jesus_ , you do know I’m not married to the guy, right?” 

“Yeah, but you’re not 25 years old anymore, and when it comes along at your age, all I’m saying is you gotta take it seriously.” 

“I’m taking it seriously.” 

“Ok. Good.” 

“Good.” 

Johnny grabs the bag of pecans from Jimmy’s fingers and throws a handful in his mouth, crunching loudly. Jimmy rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness there that never goes away, the ever-constant warmth and affability that makes Jimmy _Jimmy._ Good old Jimmy.

Johnny waits until Jimmy takes the bag of pecans back, tosses a few into his mouth, and tips a can of beer back to wash them down. Johnny side-eyes him, waiting for the perfect moment.

“I’m thinking about letting him fuck me in the ass.” 

Jimmy spits his beer out all over the (thankfully) empty seats in front of him, catching little bits of chewed up pecans in his hand and Johnny’s fairly sure some of the beer came back up through his nose. Johnny laughs out loud, slapping Jimmy on the back who is doubled over, half-coughing, half-laughing right along with Johnny. 

_“Ohmygod,”_ he chokes, holding his beer-soaked hand out helplessly and squeezing his eyes shut in mirth. “Never say that sentence again, I think I’m scarred for _life—”_

“Hey, man. You asked,” Johnny leans back in his seat, quirking his eyebrows, and picks his pizza back up. “I’m taking this shit seriously.” 

  
  


***

  
  


The Summer of 1985, the summer after high school, Jimmy rounds the gang up and they pile into Dutch’s latest ride, an ‘81 blue Bronco he’d hauled out of the dump. 

Jimmy had an uncle in Lake Tahoe, and they drove eight hours overnight and instead of going straight to the house and getting some sleep, Dutch turned the radio up and led them down a rough gravel road to Angora Lakes. They hiked another mile to a stomach-dropping 60-foot precipice over slate blue water, dimly lit by the coming sunrise. Dutch had his shoes off mid-run, shirt tossed to the wind before Johnny watched him leap into the void, twisting and falling. Dutch screamed but it wasn’t fear, it was joy and verve and youth and _freedom—_

Jimmy and Bobby hanging back _you guys are crazy!_ And Johnny toed off his shoes and socks and felt the rough granite under his feet, inhaled the smell of pine trees in his nose. He feels Tommy’s hand on his shoulder, turns to see his crooked front teeth and his freckled smile and his tawny eyes. 

_“C’mon, Johnny. Let’s go.”_

His fingers tighten on the granite wall, and he peers down, down, _down_ , and it seems about a mile high. 

He remembers the echo of the feeling of his chest closing in. 

He was scared. 

It was fear, paralyzing and simple. 

***

  
  


_“The fuck are you talking about?_ Did you just say you're a _quarterback?”_

LaRusso pushes Johnny back, detaching Johnny’s lips from his chest where he’d been mumbling nonsense. Or.... sports metaphors, apparently. 

_“What?”_ Johnny breathes, trying to rewind his brain back a little. _What the fuck had he been saying?_

“You just said, _‘Fuck yeah, baby, I’m the quarterback, let’s do this._ ’” 

Well he didn’t have to say it like that, in the most matter-of-fact, least sexy way possible. 

“Oh. Um, I did?” Johnny shakes his head, still a little fuzzy. “Whatever, let’s fuck, you’re killin’ my boner—” Johnny leans in for a kiss.

Johnny expects to get pushed back, but he doesn’t, he gets a slow, hot kiss for the next couple minutes, ratcheting up the gut twisting arousal until he can’t think straight once again. 

Except for one _niggling_ thought. 

Johnny pulls back a little, Daniel’s eyes are closed and he chases Johnny’s lips, and Johnny feels a pang in his chest that none of the girls he’d even been with did shit like that. 

He frowns up at Johnny, pushing up on his elbows. 

“What?” 

“Just...when I said quarterback. I meant like catcher.” Fuck is he an idiot. 

_“What?”_

“Like, um. You know, the catcher calls the game, like a quarterback. But the quarterback gets all the credit. Just... actually, maybe you’re the quarterback, Jimmy was saying but I think he got it backwards—” 

_“Johnny,”_ LaRusso sits up all the way, sighing all exasperated. Goddammit. There goes the night. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m just...fuck. I don’t know.”

LaRusso just looks at him, a little annoyed maybe, but mostly like he was trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with Johnny. _Concerned_ , might be the word his mother would have used, _‘I’m just concerned, Johnny, I wish you’d tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.’_

He feels LaRusso’s fingers pull his jaw around, hadn’t even realized he’d stopped looking him in the eye. Shannon wouldn’t have liked Johnny’s silence, his reluctance to answer, his failure to verbalize the strange tightening in his chest, slow and creeping. 

“You alright?” 

“Yeah. I’m fine.” 

Daniel kisses him another minute and they decide without talking about it to call it quits for the night, roll over and Daniel hits the lamp and keeps his forehead pressed against Johnny’s shoulder because he’s the type of nice to know Johnny likes a little physical contact even if neither of them can really get a good night’s sleep curled around each other. Johnny always ended up on his stomach or flipping onto his back. 

He knows that Daniel let him off the hook, didn’t push him to articulate the astringent curling thing in his chest. He can’t shake it, this feeling. 

Like there’s something right in front of his face.

And he’s missing it.

Something important.

  
  
  


***

  
  


The thing is, LaRusso may not have been the only guy he’d thought about that way. 

He’d never say it out loud, but way back in high school, he might have had a thing for somebody else. Another guy. 

Just this little thing. Not really a big deal. 

Okay so it was a thing for Bobby Brown. 

But c’mon. Who didn’t have a thing for Bobby Brown? He had eyes like fog off San Francisco Bay and his face was basically a bunch of soft-edged angles, sweet cheeks and tan skin in the summer dusted pink in the Los Angeles heat. He had a full mouth and lips like a girl, and he was— 

Well. _Pretty_ was the only way to describe Bobby Brown at age 17. 

Anyway it’s not like he’d ever done anything about it. Or said anything about it. Bobby had always been the type of best friend that Johnny hadn’t ever had to explain himself to. Not today, not about LaRusso, and not thirty years ago about his step-dad or Kreese, or even his mom dying. 

Bobby had this thing he did with his eyes. Johnny would show up to the Brown’s after going a few rounds with Sid, and Bobby would swing open the door and Johnny would pretend like he wasn’t crying— like he was just there to look at Bobby’s dad’s massive fish tank or smoke weed and drink beer. And Bobby would return the favor by tilting his head a little and letting his eyes go wide and soft and understanding, and he’d open the door and slap Johnny on the back and say, _upstairs man, go put a movie in, I’ll grab the beer_ and they’d watch Bruce Lee all night with their knees pressed together and talk about anything and everything except Johnny’s feelings. 

So anyway maybe it looked a little gay from the outside but they’d never done anything. Bobby at some point probably figured it out, but the closest thing to actual gay stuff was maybe the long hugs or the sleepovers. Maybe the couple of times Johnny woke up drooling on Bobby’s chest, Bobby calmly reading with a textbook tilted up against his legs like it was no big deal, underlining important sections with a pencil in his right hand and patting gently at Johnny’s arm with his left.

So maybe Bobby knew Johnny was just a tiny bit gay. But the thing was that Bobby _wasn’t at all_. Johnny knew that. And Bobby knew that Johnny knew. And the coolest, most badass thing about Bobby was that Bobby had never been weird about it, or made Johnny feel like he had to be careful. Bobby let him sleep over in his bed, and he would walk around the room with his shirt off and they talked about girls and karate and cars and it was always just...fucking primo with Bobby. Bobby was his best friend. They were solid. They’d been that way since high school, and Johnny knows that they’ll be like that until they die. 

So one day after all this stuff about _tops_ and _bottoms_ and _toppy-bottoms_ — seriously, _what the fuck?!—_ he asks Bobby what he’s wanted to ask him for a very long time. 

“Did you think I liked dudes? Back in high school?” 

Bobby looks up. They’re hanging out in Bobby’s garage in Bakersfield, Bobby’s wiping grease from his fingers, he’s changing the oil on his bike. The spent filter is sitting on the tool bench behind him. He wipes his fingers, shaking his head a little at Johnny and smiling, like he’s trying to frame the words just right. 

“What?” Johnny takes a defensive swig of beer. 

“No, it’s just...” Bobby shakes his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t really think about it. I just always hoped you’d find somebody who could put up with all your shit.” 

“So you didn’t really think about...” he trails off. 

“What?” 

“I dunno,” he shrugs, ducking his head. “We hung out a lot. I just thought maybe you guessed. Ali used to kind of get weird about it. How much we hung out.” 

“Johnny.” Bobby shakes his head. “You didn’t come to my house to get fucked. You were looking for shelter.”

(See? Bobby Brown. He’s fucking magnificent, isn’t he?)

Johnny tries not to smile, he’s just so glad he had a best friend. That Bobby never got tired of him.

“You could have acted more surprised,” Johnny finishes his beer, and launches the can across the garage to the recycle bin.

 _“Weeeeeellll,”_ Bobby grins, leaning back against the workbench with the new filter in his fingers, flipping open the thin cardboard box. He squints his eyes against the late afternoon sunlight. “Sometimes you can tell.” 

“Tell what?” Johnny shuffles over to the mini-fridge, his scuffed up Vans sliding against the smooth concrete floor, he knows Bobby and his dad poured it ten years back. Rob Brown was too old for that now, Bobby was struggling with whether to put him in a home. _Not very Christian,_ he’d said over breakfast at Denny’s, wiping his hand across his forehead, mournful blue eyes looking out to the parking lot.

“I dunno. You guys just seem to fit. You’re calmer these days. You fit better in your skin.” 

“You mean I’m not _wasted_ all the time.” Johnny cracks the can open, wiping the condensation from his palm down his jeans. 

“That’s part of it,” Bobby turns the new filter over in his hands, frowning thoughtfully.

“What’s the other part?” 

“Oh, I dunno Johnny. You smile more, I guess.” Bobby steps toward the bike, peering down at the slowing drip of old oil in the aluminum pan.

Johnny peers with him. “Maybe that’s the karate. Or Robby.” 

“Yeah, but isn’t that all him, too?” Bobby stands and turns back to the bench, twists open the new bottle of oil. He dips his finger in to wipe a thin coat over the rubber o-ring seal of the new filter.

Bobby’s always been insightful like that. The kids in his youth group were probably ga-ga over him. 

“What’d you do that for?” Johnny nods down at Bobby’s oily fingers grabbing for a blue shop towel.

“Oh. Helps the new filter seal up better.” Bobby nods, and winks, and turns back to his tools with newly dry fingers. “Bet LaRusso could tell you all about that.” 

Johnny’s honestly not sure if this really was a gay joke, or just acknowledgment of LaRusso’s marginally superior car knowledge.

Either way, he has enough to think about without some kind of ridiculous lube job joke making the situation more comical than it already was. 

***

  
  


Johnny actually hasn’t been high in years. He’d spent most of his twenties high, and smoking weed together had been a big part of his relationship with Shannon. Sitting on his couch for hours inbetween sex, watching stupid movies and letting days slip by when he should have been out working his landscaping gig with Bobby’s dad. Or looking for a better job, or god-forbid go to college and make something out of himself. 

He’d never managed to go for the degree, but one habit he’d pretty much kicked, outside of a celebratory toke when Jimmy’s kids were born, was the old _‘wake ‘n bake’_. He didn’t need anymore trouble after the whole Applebees thing, and there was nothing more pathetic than being high all day with your girlfriend, except maybe being high all day by yourself. So weed went by the wayside after Shannon. 

(Ok so he kept the beer and the booze but you already knew that and how else was he supposed to get over his mother’s death coupled with prospective fatherhood? Anyway. Excuses, excuses.) 

But this whole ass-fucking thing.

(Who is this really about? Funny it’s not Daniel pushing for it. And you’re not even sure _you_ want it. You’re terrified, aren’t you? It’ll hurt real bad, it’ll make you a little bitch-boy, a pussy, a cream-puff. )

But if you _don’t_...

(Then you don’t take your own advice. You wanna be ‘all in’? What’s more ‘all in’ in a relationship than getting fucked? If you don’t do it, then this whole thing is doomed to go to hell just like every other relationship in your life. You haven’t done enough. Tried enough.)

Try harder. 

(Everybody leaves.)

He won’t. 

(Well it’s not _him_ that’s the problem, is it?) 

_You_ won’t.

(Look at you. You want it, you don’t want it. Make up your mind. LaRusso doesn’t give a shit, he’s happy the way things are, he just wants _you,_ you stupid fuck.)

Why do you always do this, creating problems where there aren’t any? 

Why do you always do this?

_Why are you like this?_

  
  
  


***

Ok. Jesus. 

So back to the weed. 

So he used to smoke and now he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to bother going to a doctor and making up some excuse. And he doesn’t have the number to his old guy anymore.

He decides to ask Miguel. He’s a teenager. He’ll know where to get some.

“You know they legalized that like...three years ago, right? You can just go to a dispensary. It’s legal if you’re over 21.” 

They’re at the house out back, seated on the raised deck, the koi pond glitters in the afternoon sunlight. LaRusso was still at work, it wasn’t a regular practice day but sometimes Diaz would just show up, probably because he knew Johnny was bored on his days off. 

“Yeah. _Duh_. I know.” Johnny pulls a face. Miguel can probably see right through his bullshit. “I mean, uh. Where do you get the good stuff?” 

“I don’t smoke.” Miguel shakes his head, pulling a towel out of his duffel bag to wipe the sweat from his face and arms. 

“Yeah, but those other little shits used to. Tory, and what’s his face.” 

“Yeah, but they just had Mitch’s older brother buy it. From a _dispensary_. Legally.” 

“Ok fine. Which one. Just tell me where to go.” 

“I don’t know where Mitch’s brother went. But my _ya-ya_ goes to a place right off of Receda Boulevard.” 

Rosa. Yeah. She’s got the good stuff. 

“Why do you want this stuff, anyway? I didn’t know you smoked.” 

“Uh, you know. I’ve been cutting back on the beer. Gotta find a new way to chill out, right?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Miguel wrinkles his nose up, skeptically. “Make sure to ask them though, how much to smoke. Or eat, if you get edibles. That stuff is supposed to be really strong. You don’t want to take too much.” 

Johnny chuckles. “Kid. I was smoking my fair share in middle school. I can handle a little weed.” 

  
  


***

It’s July of 2001 and his mother is wasting away at the cancer center in Northridge.

He’s going to be a father, and Shannon calls him a coward. 

She’s not wrong.

She cornered him in the bathroom of the bar, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. He was slumped against a urinal, the gray tile spinning under his feet. 

_You need to pull it together, Johnny, jesus christ—_

She had a doctor’s appointment the next day. One of those sonogram appointments, with the gel and the grainy pictures. He’d never seen a baby in one, only the metastatic mass in his mother’s abdomen. 

_If you want to see your kid, answer your phone tomorrow. I’ll pick you up, all you have to do is answer the phone, Johnny._

She calls the next day about noon, but Johnny’s still working off the hangover. His eyes crack open and he watches the phone flash on the hook across the room, listens to the shrill ring in the hollowed out apartment.

His finger close tight around cotton sheets. He doesn’t get up, and Shannon doesn’t ask him again.

  
  


***

Johnny can’t handle this weed. 

He asked the dispensary dude for something to ‘relax’ and the guy told him that ‘edibles were the way to go’, babbling on about THC and ‘cabana-noids’ or some shit. There was a group of college kids looking at him all weird so he grabbed a bag of cookies, threw them on the counter, and asked _Will these get me high?_

The answer is yes. Very much so. And Johnny now wishes he’d listened to the directions the kid was shouting as he pushed out the door. Or maybe read the little packet of directions he’d immediately thrown away without reading. 

But he wasn’t stupid. He’d eaten one cookie, waited a half an hour, and eaten a couple more after nothing happened. 

And still nothing for another thirty minutes. LaRusso was coming home soon, he had to be high enough for this plan to work. 

_Finally_ , almost two hours after he’d eaten the damn things, a familiar warm bucket of bliss starts to tingle it’s way down from the crown of Johnny’s head. His eyes feel too hot and his fingers feel funny and he decides that watching some porn on his laptop while he waits would be a good idea. 

LaRusso steps through the door either five minutes or five hours later, Johnny’s not quite sure. The laptop is long ago abandoned, Johnny is too busy completely melting into the couch, head swimming around and around in horrible, paralyzing circles, thinking about how the world was so much emptier than the one he’d grown up in, all the people he’s failed in life, what was the point of a fifty-year-old man doing karate in his backyard? He’s ruined Miguel’s life and Robby’s life and LaRusso’s life and also were sea turtles extinct already? 

LaRusso’s face floats into watery vision, he thinks he’s being shaken. 

“Johnny, Johnny, what the fuck is wrong with you, are you okay?” 

“I can’t...I can’t remember about the sea turtles.” 

_“What?_ Johnny, what did you take?” He feels Daniel’s warm fingers on his face. 

“Cookies. Your fingers are warm.” 

He hears LaRusso sigh. “Have you eaten today?” 

“I think I’m dying. Did you bring pizza?” 

“I’m gonna make you some dinner, okay? Does that sound okay?” 

Daniel pets his head. He hears soft laughter. 

“Are you laughing at me?” 

“Yes, Johnny, but you’re gonna be fine.” 

LaRusso starts to get up, but Johnny grabs at his wrist. 

_“Hey—”_

LaRusso comes back, goes back to combing through Johnny’s hair, which is nice. 

“Don’t leave. Everybody leaves.” 

“You’re gonna be fine,” he murmurs. “You just need to eat. Then you can tell me why you’d do such a stupid thing.” 

“I’m a fuckup.” 

“Johnny, you’re not a fuckup—” 

“I _am_ , and I’m ruining it,” and to his embarrassment, Johnny might have started to cry a little bit. “I don’t wanna be a fuckup anymore.” 

Daniel wipes his thumbs over Johnny’s cheeks. 

(He says some things like _baby_ and maybe even _honey_ but Johnny won’t say anything about that later. That was none of your business, you can fuck off, thanks.) 

Daniel must know the pizza can wait, and he pushes Johnny further into the couch and curls up on his side, face to face, and lays there with him for who knows how long, waiting for Johnny to come back down to earth. Johnny wakes up with Daniel’s arm around his waist and his nose tucked into the hollow part where his neck and chest meet. 

His head is still buzzing but his thoughts are much clearer, and Johnny breathes deep enough to wake Daniel up. 

“Why do you have your shoes on?” Johnny asks, peering down into brown eyes. The room is dusk-dark. 

Daniel blinks slowly, confused. 

“I didn’t take them off.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you feel better?” 

He feels great, now. Like somebody took all the blood out of his body and replaced it with warm maple syrup. 

“Yeah,” he answers, and reaches down slow and sure, flicks Daniel’s belt open. “Take off your shoes.” 

  
  


***

May 2010. North Hills Community Park. 

Robby’s on the blue team, he’s pretty sure. 

Shannon’s on the sidelines bent over one of a dozen coolers. She’s wearing a fake leather jacket even though it’s 70 degrees out. The kids are chasing the ball around the field like flocking geese, a mass of blue t-shirts, and black and white shin guards. 

She turns around, sunglasses hiding her eyes, and Johnny sees her face fall. She slams the cooler shut and stalks over before he makes it to the field. 

“The hell are you doing here?” 

“C’mon, Shan. I just wanna see him practice.” 

“Yeah? It’s the last one. Why didn’t you come earlier, he’s been expecting you for months.”

“I do have a job, you know.” Johnny’s head is aching from the hangover and Shannon’s voice isn’t helping. He cranes over her shoulder, and spots Robby out on the field. 

“It’s one practice a week, Johnny, and there was a game every weekend. You don’t work that fuckin’ hard.” 

“Oh, _fuck you_ , like you’ve ever held down a job for more than a week. Who’s buying groceries this week?”

Johnny spots a guy in glasses and a button-down shirt rubber-necking from across the field. He looks away quickly when Johnny jerks his chin. “Uh huh. Lemme guess, Dorky Dave over there?” 

Shannon clenches her fists and the way her jaw goes tight tells Johnny he’s guessed right. 

“Software? Accountant? How long till he figures out his meal ticket’s only good for another month?” 

Shannon gets right up in his face, and Johnny has a distant thought that maybe this isn’t the best way to ingratiate himself to the mother of his son, whom he’d like to see today. 

_“Fuck...you, Johnny,”_ she hisses. “You need to get out of here. I don’t want him seeing you. You’ll get his hopes up.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

She laughs, that condescending, bitchy laugh that Johnny’s always hated, it gets right down to his last nerve. “What, you gonna show up this Saturday? See his last game?” 

“Yeah, maybe I was planning on it.” 

“You’re great at planning, Johnny. But it’s the _coming through_ part that’s sort of the whole fucking key, you know?” 

“DAD!” 

Johnny ignores the poison in Shannon’s voice, and steps past her to see Robby running up. The rest of the kids are headed to the juice pouches and fruit snacks coming out of the coolers. Johnny feels light slam into his chest and kneels down in time to pull Robby into his arms. He hasn’t seen him in a couple months. 

_“Heeeey buddy_ , you look taller!” 

Robby pulls back, practically bouncing up and down. “I did! An inch this month! Dad, did you see my assist? I passed to Sam and he got the last goal, I was gonna go for it by myself but coach says I need to give the other kids a chance—” 

“I did see it, buddy, it was _awesome!”_

Johnny ignores Shannon’s derisive snort, which stung a little. So he hadn’t seen the assist, he was here, wasn’t he? 

“DAD, Dad, are you coming to the game this Saturday?! We’re playing the purple team, they’re really good but Coach says he thinks we can win, and if we do that means we’re the Champions!” 

Johnny ruffles his hair and studies his son’s crooked teeth and bright eyes behind his glasses. 

He tells Robby he’s going to be there. 

He promises. 

He lies. 

A week later on a Monday night Shannon knocks on his apartment door, and Johnny reluctantly cracks the door open. She shoves a large paper envelope in his chest. 

“I called you,” she seethes, “three fucking times to come to that game. You promised him, Johnny, you fucking _promised him_ , and you broke his heart.” 

“I know,” he chokes out, “I _know_ , I just...” 

Couldn’t face his own kid. Woke up smelling like sex and booze. In somebody else’s apartment, can’t remember her name for the life of him now. Had to call a taxi and read the address off an electric bill sitting on the kitchen counter. 

Shannon doesn’t let him finish, or pick any excuse from the jumbled mess in his head. 

“You know what, Johnny? You can keep these. They’re his team pictures. You can keep one of those on your fridge and look at it every morning, because you’re not gonna get any closer. I won’t let you treat him like this. You try to show up like that again, and I swear to god I’ll call a lawyer and make it official, understand?” 

He grips the paper envelope tighter, his voice is hoarse and desperate, and he’s too drunk for this right now. “Look, just, let me explain—” 

“You’re a _mess,_ Johnny. And you’re full of shit. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you can’t keep using your mother as an excuse—” 

“ _Don’t—”_

“It’s been _ten fucking years,_ Johnny! Your mother is dead, but your son is alive, and you can’t prioritize that?! What the fuck is wrong with you?! It’s _pathetic—”_

“So you don’t want me around, but you’re fine dragging your ‘Boyfriend of the Month’ past his bedroom every night, huh?” 

He knows. It’s not the right time. But it’s about all he has in his arsenal, and Shannon’s weaknesses were obvious and easy. 

She tells him to fuck off one more time and leaves. 

Johnny puts the picture on his fridge, and he leaves them alone. 

  
  


***

Daniel doesn’t ask for more words, he just pulls Johnny in, works his mouth open with his tongue little by little. Johnny didn’t use to put much stock in kissing. It used to be like the quarter you put in to play the game, the price for the prize, _‘pay to play’—_ LaRusso lent a new magnetism to making out, something Johnny hasn’t felt the pull of since kissing Ali Mills on the ferris wheel at 15, when pressing your mouth to somebody else’s was bright and brash and brand new, and you wanted to keep going just for the sake of it, just for another taste of somebody’s lips, no more room in your head for anything else because you didn’t know any better. 

Well, it was sort of like that. There was a whole lot more to know at 50.

Daniel kisses him slow and the strange creeping stills, and when Daniel squeezes in with his thighs and turns the both of them over and holds himself over Johnny carefully— the pressure slows down and reverses a little, opening in a soft numb wash. Daniel tugs at Johnny’s shirt and Johnny lift his arms and sits up, just a little, Daniel’s weight settling down in the center of his lap, and he thinks he might die with the pleasure of it, the feel of lining up, the elastic slide of Johnny’s fingers under Daniel’s waistband.

 _“Hold on,”_ Daniel breathes heavy into Johnny’s open mouth, fumbles to his feet and drags Johnny back into the bedroom, there’s a hand on Johnny’s bare chest and another in the bedside table. Johnny hears the plastic _crack_ of a lid snapping open. 

_“C’mon baby,”_ he says, pulling Daniel down on top of him. _“C’mon, c’mon.”_

“I got you,” Daniel’s teeth on his chin. “I know what you need. Stay with me, _babe, c’mon.”_

The memory sits, playing like a projection behind Johnny’s closed eyelids— the freezing morning wind over Lake Tahoe, Dutch in the water below him, Tommy’s war cry behind him as they jumped together into the air, the rush of the blue surface coming to meet him— 

It might be the pot, it might be the novelty. But he thinks, that the closest he’s felt to this, to his soul-cracking open into something sublimely _new—_ was being eighteen years old with sixty feet of space between him and the water, the closest he’s ever been to death but also the closest to God if there was such a thing.

 _“Holy shit,”_ he hears himself breathe. LaRusso laughs, chest heaving, and rests their foreheads together, familiar but in total reverse. 

“I know,” Daniel hauls air in, then out of his lungs, rushing over Johnny’s skin and wicking the sweat cold from his neck. “ _Fuck_ , I know it.” 

The sheets are cool at his back and Johnny’s heart thumps steadily onward, opening like the water’s all-encompassing embrace, whole and larger than himself.

  
  
  


***

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650693) by [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86)




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